


A Hero's Tribute

by Backbiter222



Category: Marvel
Genre: Art, Comics, Dreams, F/M, Flashback, Idea - Freeform, Love, Marvel - Freeform, Parents, Part 1, School, Tribute, Word Incorporation, Writing, friends - Freeform, hero - Freeform, hotdogs, legend
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2018-12-11
Updated: 2018-12-10
Packaged: 2019-09-16 03:30:53
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,038
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/16946160
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Backbiter222/pseuds/Backbiter222
Summary: A tribute to a man passed. A story of a boy whose ideas and dreams far surpassed what was wanted of him. A story of success and failure and loss and gain. A story of a child from birth to death and the beautiful life they lived.





	A Hero's Tribute

**Author's Note:**

  * For [Random_Inked_Thoughts](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Random_Inked_Thoughts/gifts).



> Marvel legend and hero to all, Stan Lee, recently passed. His death was a tremendous blow to many, especially to children and fans who thought he would live forever. He inspired so many people and helped so many more. He had a good life and was an amazing man. I am writing this story to remember him and to celebrate his life, not to mourn his death. Some details I am pulling straight from his amazing life, but most of the stories are made up by me. Stan Lee may have passed, but he will forever live on in the hearts of his fans and in my heart. His comics and his movies and his cameos have helped to inspire and build my life and the lives of so many others. I dedicate this story to him and wish that whenever he is now, that he find peace.   
> Excelsior!

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

 

“I want to be a writer, mommy!”

 

“You don’t have what it takes, son. Stick to what you know.”

 

“I don’t want to make hot dogs!”

 

“You don’t have a choice.”

 

A small, black-haired boy looked down at his feet, a collection of papers clutched in his hands. The hands that were currently hidden behind his back. He had been so excited to show his mother, but now he was crestfallen. He backed away slowly, then turned to his room, the papers still hidden.

 

He dropped the papers on the ground and they fluttered down, falling apart. There were seven pages in all, each covered in words. Words and pictures. The boy walked to his desk, covered in crayons, and sat down. He swept all the papers there into his drawer, along with the crayons.

 

That night, the boy went to sleep. He lay in his darkened room, dreaming. Dreaming of heroes flying across the sky, gods slaying monsters, men becoming demons, demons becoming men. He dreamed of boys growing strong, of boys growing into heroes. He dreamed of a universe, one in which he ruled legions of these heroes. 

 

While the boy dreamt, his door opened. A tall man walked in, followed by a woman.

 

“I’m worried about him, Jack. He has his head in the clouds, always drawing, always writing.”

 

“Is that such a bad thing?”

 

“It is if he wants to become the owner of the factory one day. I want you to tell him to stop. Talk to him about what he needs to do, please! I just want him to be better than us.”

 

“Celia, he’s only seven. There’s still time, sweetheart. Don’t worry, I’ll talk to him.”

 

The woman, Celia, walked out. The man, Jack, turned to go. He stopped and turned, gazing at his son. His eyes softened, and he smiled.

 

“You’ll do great things someday, my boy.”

 

He walked out, pausing as he tread on papers laying by the door. He bent down, groaning as he did. Picking up the papers, he saw crayon drawings and a child's scrawl. The pictures depicted a red man swinging around from the tops of buildings. The words told his story. The story of the boy hero, swinging to save those who needed saving.

 

Jack smiled and put the papers into a neat pile by his son’s bed. He bent down to the boy's ear and whispered, “Keep writing, son. I can’t wait to read what your beautiful head makes.” He kissed his forehead and left the room.

 

The boy in the bed rolled over, his eyes opening. He just had an idea. 

 

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

 

A boy of about eleven opened his eyes and yawned. He sat up, rubbing his face. Sunlight was streaming in from his window, and he could hear birds chirping. He got out of bed, rushing to get ready for school. On his way out the door, he turned and grabbed a pile of papers. 

 

From the window above, his father smiled, happy that his son had heeded his advice so long ago. 

 

At school, two new boys walked over to the boy, calling for him. 

 

“Yo! What’s up, Satan! Any new stories?” The first boy yelled from across the blacktop, sprinting over, “I want to know what happens next!”

 

“You always could help me, you know, Jack, instead of just reading! And I told you, just because I’m Jewish doesn't mean I killed Jesus. I’m not Satan!”

 

“Awww, Kirby just want the reward, not the gain. What’s up, Satan!” The second boy said, throwing his arm around the black-haired boy, “Is my name on this one?”

 

“Yeah, Steve. You’re the illustrator. And Jesus, stop calling me Satan!”

 

“Thanks, man! And how’d you kill Jesus?”

 

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

 

_ Jack, the black-haired boy’s father, knocked on his son’s door. “Can I come it?” _

 

_ “Sure, Dad.” _

 

_ Jack walks over to the bed and sits down, patting the spot next to him. His son walks over and sits down, looking up at his father, _

 

_ “So… your mother and I were talking the other night, talking about you.” _

 

_ “Me?” _

 

_ “You. She’s worried about what you’re doing, with the writing, the drawing. You hole yourself up in your room, scribbling and doodling, wasting your life. Her words, not mine.” _

 

_ “But I like the writing. I like the heroes, and it’s not a waste!” _

 

_ “I’m not saying you should stop. Your mother is. She wants you to be practical, to be business-like. I don’t. I want you to live and write. I saw your stories. The characters are great, strong, and amazing. You have great potential and you will do great things.” _

 

_ The boy is nodding, and looks up at his father, wondering where this is going.  _

 

_ “I can’t wait to see what that beautiful head of yours comes up with, son. If you can make comics like this when you are seven, you’ll make masterpieces when you’re eighteen. I guarantee it. Somebody once told me the world was going to roll me. I didn’t know what it meant then, but I do now. The world may have rolled me, but I know it will not roll you.” _

 

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

 

The boy looked over at his clock, reading a time of 1:45, a.m.. He dropped his pencil and stood up, his knees cracking. He ran to the hall and downstairs, getting a glass of water. On his desk, he left a stack of papers, some stapled together, some not. All of them were overflowing with words and pictures, the quality much improved since he had now reached the age of thirteen.

 

The topmost paper had a picture of a man in a red suit with spiders all around him. Next to that was a half covered picture of a stretchy man and a man on fire. 

 

The boy came back and pulled all the papers into a box and closed it, placing it by his door. There was a second box there, marked: DO NOT OPEN. The boy then went to bed.

 

After his light was shut off, a door opened down the hall. His father, Jack, came out and crept over to the boy’s room. He went inside and took the box with the label and moved it downstairs. He opened it and pulled out the first folder. There were twenty-five total and each was neatly labeled with a name. 

 

Jack sat at the table and read each of the comic books, for that is surely what they were, until five in the morning. Smiling, he put the comics back in the box and left it in the boy's room where he found it. 

 

He then walked back to his room and laid down next to his wife.

 

“Where were you?”

 

“I was just reading some old things over.”

 

“Were they his?”

 

“Yeah. He really is onto something, Celia. I never saw anyone write heroes and villains and stories like this! He and his friends have been writing and illustrating these forever! And he has been doing it since before then.”

 

“It’s not good for him, Jack. It’s really not. And I don’t like those boys he runs with either.”

 

“You should read them. I think some of the stories would really speak to you. And Steve and Jack are great kids. Their imaginations and personalities are rivaled only by our son.”

 

“I still think you should have listened to me and told him not to make these ridiculous stories all those years ago.”

 

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

 

_ “You did what! I told you to tell him not to write, that it will only bring him misery. What the Hell are you doing, encouraging him of all things!” _

 

_ “Celia, his writing is really amazing. He’s only seven, but he already writes stories that you or I could only dream of. The illustrations he makes are amazing too, he’ll be a great artist, too.” _

 

_ “I don’t want an artist for a son, I want a worker. If his head is full of dreams, how is he supposed to work well? He’ll be too poor for even sausage! Stop encouraging him and make him end what he’s doing or I will. And that’s a promise.” _

 

_ “I promise that I will, Celia. Just give it a few years. Things will work out, I swear it.” _

 

_ “And if they don’t?” _

 

_ “If they don’t, I’ll step in and stop him.” _

 

_ “Good.” _

 

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

 

_ The world is burning. Flaming. Breaking. The black-haired boy watches through a haze as a man runs into the blaze, pulling off his jacket as he does so. The boy hears screaming as the building crumbles. The fire spreads and covers everything. A different boy falls to his knees, sobbing as his brother is devoured by the flames.  _

 

_ The scene changes. _

 

_ There is a jungle, somewhere deep in Africa. A pack of panthers walk across the land, growling at each other. A bright blue plant is growing in the shade of the trees. A dark-skinned man bends down, picking one of the flowers. The panthers turn to him, their teeth bared. He lowers his hands to their heads and pets them and walks away. They follow.  _

 

_ The scene changes. _

 

_ The streets are empty. The only thing the boy could see was his own silhouette. A new man walks across the street, emerging from an ally. He carries a long stick, the kind a blind man would use to walk. A scream echoes, very faint and far. The man’s head turns and he starts to run, dropping the stick. He has two points atop his head. _

 

_ The scene changes.  _

 

_ There are no more heroes filling the black-haired boy’s dreams. He is alone now in a dark room. Step by step he walks, moving toward the ends of the room. He pushes against one of the walls, and they all fall outward, leaving the boy in the air. He starts to fall, his arms flailing. He stops, suddenly. He begins to fly, to soar across the sky. He sees two other boys and moves to them. They are standing atop a mountain, heads held high. _

 

_ “We are heroes tonight.” _

 

_ The black-haired boy bolts up, wide awake now. He first looks to his door, to the two boxes piled there where he left them. The light is off in the hallway, and he falls back to his bed, sighing.  _

 

“Heroes.”

 

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

 

“Hey. What’s up?”

 

“Not much, Joan. Have you seen Steve?”

 

“Yeah, he’s over there.”

 

“Thanks.”

 

The black-haired boy walks away from the girl he was talking to and finds his friend. They had been talking about selling some of their comics, or just giving them out.

 

“Satan!” Steve calls, “What’s up, my goose?”

 

“Not much, man. I got the comics, want to have a look? And why am I goose now?”

 

“Didn't cha hear? The world is made of geese!”

 

The two boys walk together towards the welcoming shade of a nearby tree. They sit down, paging through the papers the black-haired boy brought. An apple falls from the tree, hitting the black-haired boy’s shoulder. He picks it up and shrugs.

 

“Huh. You know, we should make one of our villains eat an apple.”

 

“Why?”

 

“It will make him look even more like an asshole.”

 

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

 

“Hey, guys.”

 

“What’s up, Satan? You seem… off.”

 

“I can’t do the comics anymore.”

 

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

 

_ The black-haired boy gets home, dropping his backpack in the corner. He rushes to the kitchen, intending to grab a snack before going to his room to finish a story he and Jack had started. _

 

_ “I think I’ll give him magnetic powers, maybe a cape too. And he can fly, but only if there is metal near…” _

 

_ “Come here!” _

 

_ The boy whips around and sees his mother sitting at the table. She has her arms crossed and a stern expression. The boy gulps and slowly starts towards her. _

 

_ “I need you to listen, I need you to hear. This is something I should have told you long ago. I trusted your father to do it, but he failed. Now it is up to me.” _

 

_ “What do you need to tell me, mom?” _

 

_ “These Things,” she states with unmeasurable disgust, holding up a pile of comics, “need to go. They are absolute wastes of time. They provide you with nothing and they mock all we hold dear.” _

 

_ “Mom, it's not…” _

 

_ “I’M NOT FINISHED! You need to hear this. So sit down and shut up. This will be easier for you if you only listen.” _

 

_ The boy sits, his hands still in his lap. He doesn't make a move to fidget or doodle, not like he usually does. He blinks repeatedly as if he is trying to hold back tears. Silently he wishes for his father to come home.  _

 

_ “Those boys you run with, Steve and Jack, are bad for you. I love you, sweetheart, but they need to go. That girl, Joan, she’s not for you either. They helped you to start this whole comics business. You need a good head on your shoulders, not some fairytale filled dreamland. From now on, you will NOT ever write another one of these monstrosities. You will not see Jack, or Steve, or Joan. You will work for me like you will work for the factory.” _

 

_ As she says this, Celia picks up the first comic from the pile. It has on it a picture of a green monster holding two pieces of a car. Grasping each corner, she tears it in half and throws it to the ground. _

 

_ “One.” _

 

_ “Mom! Stop! Please no…” _

 

_ The boy falls to his knees, tears now fully flowing from his face. _

 

_ “Sit back in your chair! You will sit here and watch me do with this trash what should have been done long ago. If you move, if you close your eyes, the consequences will be worse than you could ever imagine.” _

 

_ The black-haired boy, his face and shirt soaked from the countless tears cascading down his face, sits and watches as his mother works, tearing years of his and his friends work to pieces. He stares at the shredded paper on the ground and wishes for a hero.  _

 

_ “Two. Three. Four. Five. Six. Seven. Eight. Nine. Ten. Eleven. Twelve. Thirteen. Fourteen. Fifteen. Sixteen…” _

 

_ The front door opens and Jack walks in, just finishing a long day at work. He pauses and turns to the kitchen, and hearing crying, runs to find what it wrong. He barges through the door to see his wife counting.  _

 

_ “Two hundred and three.” _

 

_ “What the HELL are you doing!? Stop this insanity now!” _

 

_ “Every time you come back, I feel a stronger urge to cripple you! You spineless coward, you should have done this a long time ago! I’m just doing what you were too weak to do. This boy needs to learn his place in life!” _

 

_ Seeing his father, the boy runs to him, throwing his arms around him, his tears staining his father’s shirt.  _

 

_ “Go. Come back later. Run, son.” He whispers into the black-haired boy's ear. He turns to Celia and the boy runs to the door. As he sprints down the street, sobbing, he can still hear his parents yelling and paper tearing. _

  
  


_ “Two hundred and seven.” _

 

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

 

“What! Wait, why can’t you do the comics? Man, what happened?”

 

“Nothing, Jack. Nothing happened.”

 

“Come to my house. We can talk about this.”

 

“No.”

 

The black-haired boy walks away from Jack, tears still glistening in his eyes. As he walks, the boy reaches into his pocket. His finds a comic, a short one that had been rolled up. As Jack continues to call after him, the black-haired boy puts his hands on the corners of the comic.

 

“Two hundred and eight.”

 

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

 

“Comics for sale, one dollar a comic!”

 

“Get your comics here!”

 

Three teenagers, about sixteen years of age are standing outside a large building that read:  _ DeWitt Clinton High School  _ on the side. They waved their arms about, calling for people. Several people rushed over quickly, gathering up comics and dropping money as fast as they could. Others just walked past, turning their heads away.

 

“Well, Jack, Steve, I think it is time to call it quits.”

 

“Yeah,” Jack replied, packing up his things, “We sold a good number today. You guys want to come over?”

 

“Sure!” Steve called out, hopping up.

 

“I can’t, sorry,” the black-haired boy began, “I said I’d…”

 

“Meet Joan. We know.” the other two boys recited in unison.

 

“Have fun.”

 

“You too.”

 

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

 

“Hey, baby! How are you?”

 

“Great, Joan. And you?”

 

The black-haired boy arrived at Joan’s house and greeted her, setting his backpack down by the door. Together the two made their way to the back porch, holding hands. As they sat and talked, Joan’s mother looked on from a window. Shoulder to shoulder, the boy and the girl sat, talking together and enjoying the other’s company.

 

“You sold twenty-two comics! Congratulations!”

 

“Thanks, it means a lot.”

 

“Of course, you deserve it.”

 

Joan threw her arms around the boy, embracing him, and he hugged her back, happy and content. Smiling, he kept talking.

 

“Yeah and we have more made, some for fun, others on order for some people. My mom doesn't really approve, but my dad talked her around.”

 

“You never did really tell me about what happened during that time you stopped hanging with me and Steve and Jack.”

 

“I never did, huh?” the boy mused, mostly to himself. He removed his arm from its resting place around Joan’s waist and folded his hands in his lap. “I guess I should tell you…”

 

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

 

_ The boy walked away from Jack, the comic he ripped fluttering down to the street. It landed in a puddle and began to melt. Jack looked on as his friend walked away, his head hung low and his shoulders drooped. He reached out an arm and made as if to call out, but stopped. He turned and walked away, the opposite direction the black-haired was walking.  _

 

_ The black-haired boy didn’t make it home that night. He went to the park just down the street and slept there, sheltered from the rain that began to fall. He was not sheltered from the cold. _

 

_ At three in the morning, a man approached the playground. As he walked into the warm glow of the street light, you could see it was Jack, the boy’s father. He walked over to his son and gathered him into his arms and carried him home. There he lay the shivering boy in bed and drew up the covers. His mother was nowhere to be seen. _

 

_ Jack sat on the bed and looked down at his son. _

 

_ “I love you. Your mother loves you. She’s just confused, son. The comics scare her. She, we, didn’t have great jobs. We never studied hard and never went as far as we could. Your mother doesn’t want that for you. She wants you to be better than her, not be her. But she’s going about it wrong. Keep writing, son, please. I love you.” _

 

_ Jack left, turning out the light as he left. He did not shut the door. A few minutes later he was back, holding a box. He walked over and knelt down, placing the box underneath the bed. Standing up, Jack looked down at his son. _

 

_ “We’ll get past this.” _

 

_ He walked out, shutting the door behind him. _

 

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

 

“I sat up as soon as he left,” the black-haired boy continued, “and looked under the bed...”

 

He looked up to Joan. Her eyes were red and puffy, like his. They have both been crying. Without warning, she threw her arms around the boy and began to cry, her tears dripping onto his shirt.

 

“I’m so so sorry that you had to go through that, baby. I wish I could have been… have… been”

 

His words were interrupted and broken by crying. The boy hugged her back, tears of his own flowing now. Together they sat, lost in each other's embrace, as the sun set. Together they watched as the yellow ball of fire sank below the clouds, turning the sky a beautiful shade of pink, of orange, of red. They watched as the colors faded, leaving them alone in the dark.

 

“Kids! You must come in now!” Joan’s mother called, sticking her head out of the window. 

 

“Looks like you’ll have to finish telling me tomorrow.”

 

“Yeah. I’ll see you tomorrow…?”

 

“Definitely.”

 

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

 

When the black-haired boy came home, he walked swiftly up to his room, not stopping to say hello to his mother. Although The Incident had been resolved, the boy still felt increasingly distant with his mother. Deep within him, he still felt that he could not forgive her. 

 

The boy walked to his bed and sat down, opening his book.

 

“This homework is going to kill me.”

 

His mother, hours later, timidly walked upstairs. Approaching his room, she slowed down to the point where she was barely walking. She raised her hand to knock on the door.

 

There was no response.

 

Gently easing open the door, Celia gazed at her son. He had fallen asleep still clutching his textbook. Walking over to him, she removed the book and pulled up the covers. The black-haired boy, seemingly asleep, rolled over onto his side, his back facing his mother. 

 

She sighed and turned to go.

 

Barely audible, the words, “I love you, mom,” echoed across the room. Celia froze. It was the first time in almost three years that she had heard those words. 

 

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

 

“Jesus Christ, stop sensually licking the tinfoil!”

 

“But why, Satan? I like the tinfoil.”

 

“Jesus, Jack,” Steve said, shaking his head, “Do you really need to do that?”

 

The three boys were walking together to the black-haired boy’s house. They had just finished raking some old man’s lawn and were gathering for refreshments.

 

“It’s not my fault I’m mad deep up in the club, guys!”

 

“That makes literally no sense.”

 

They made it back to the black-haired boy’s house. Together they grabbed a bag of cookies and several glasses of water. They tromped up the stairs to the boy’s room, sitting down on the bed when they arrived.

 

“Well that was fun,” Steve commented, gulping down his water.

 

“Least we got paid,” Jack called out, throwing a wad of ones and fives into the air.

 

The black-haired boy looked up. “Yeah, maybe you’ll be able to afford a sense of humor!”

 

“Or a girlfriend!” Steve chortled, falling over with laughter.

 

The black-haired boy and Steve fell over laughing, scattering cookies onto the floor. Jack looked on straight-faced for a few seconds before joining in.

 

“You guys are the worst.”

 

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

 

“Everyone raise your glasses! Happy twelve years!”

 

Five people stood together in a living room, each holding a glass of something dark red. Jack had his arm around his girlfriend Roz and Steve stood next to them. All three were staring at the black-haired boy, who was embracing Joan.

 

“To Satan! To ten years of comics! To twelve years of friendship!”

 

All five seventeen-year-olds raised their glasses to their mouths and drank. 

 

“I told you, Steve, that I’m not Satan!”

 

Everyone dissolved into laughter. They sat down, each to their own chair, much to the disappointment of the couples. For several hours, they sat and talked, sharing experiences, memories, ideas, and food. They tried their hands at playing monopoly and stopped after Jack robbed the bank seven too many times. Noone noticed Roz and Joan as they robbed it thirteen times. 

 

The black-haired boy stood up. “Hey guys, I got a job.”

 

“No way!”

 

“That’s awesome!”

 

“Way to go, babe!”

 

Joan threw her arms around the boy, knocking him off his feet. They tumbled to the ground in a heap and soon they were kissing, locked together at the lips. Jack turned to Roz and shrugged and they began to kiss as well. It wasn't until Steve started yelling that they stopped. 

 

“So,” the black-haired boy continued, “I got a job for Timely Comics and I think I am going to try to get some of our comics published. If you guys are cool with it?”

 

“Hell yeah man!” Steve and Jack yelled as they stood up.

 

“That’s all I want!”

 

“Then let’s get started,” the boy said, standing and turning to the window.

 

“Time to work.”

 

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

  
  


**Author's Note:**

> So this was chapter 1 of 2. The second part will be coming soon. I hope you liked this, and please comment down below if you have and thoughts or suggestions. Thanks!
> 
> This story was also the result of another challenge with my friend, Random_Inked_Thoughts. This one was a word incorporation story. (The theme was also supposed to be Crack, but I failed that one.) Shoutout to her for her amazing works and for leading me to write this. Thanks!


End file.
